The Evolution of Dolls
by La Vita a Colori
Summary: Takes place mostly at Wammy House. Main Characters are L, B, and H OC . Support characters: Wammy, A, Linda, Matt, Mello, Near, The Good Doctor OC . Focuses on growing up and how they cope with intense situations. Give it a go! Finally updated!
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** The wonderful DN characters don't belong to me.

**Author's Note**: So, this is the beginning of The Evolution of Dolls. It's only the prologue so it's optional. Kind of drabblesque and philosophical . I am focusing on the children at Wammy's and the intense situations presented to them, so if you read it and are like "wtf?" know that there will be an **actual** storyline. Again, this is just the prologue. Oh, and I'll have something more up for Snake Fighting and Lamentations this week, don't you worry! ;D

And thank you very much for giving this beginning piece a try.

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"_Your body is just a vehicle; a transport to the soul._

_It's what's inside the people is beauty to behold._

_Fear not of evil._

_Every day that flesh it grows old; changes of the time takes its toll."_

_-Damien Marley "It Was Written"_

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**The Evolution of Dolls: Prologue**

Children.

The most pertinent element to human life.

Completely devoid of inconsistencies and filth till they meet the world and its boundaries, concepts, and thresholds. The world… it is large and strange. Alien territory. If not for humans, what would make it turn? For it surely would not be able to turn itself. That is just inconceivable. The world needs humans to make it go. They are it's fuel, it's lighter, it's canola oil.

Or so they would like to believe.

Blind. Blind. Blind. Blind. Blind.

Humans are so damn blind, but the children can _see_.

They are blank slates, a canvas for the Picasso's and Michelangelo's of the world to decorate with fancy colors and monochromatic schemes and floral patterns. Yet, they are also painted by Stalins and Genghis Khans with religions, ideologies, politics and fanatical ideas of all walks of life.

Children are what the world needs to go on. Children are there to carry on what the human race has become over the millennia. To continue the names of great men who wish to be known for generations to come. Children are the slaves to their predecessors and they don't even know it. All they do is smile and sit pretty, saying, "Yes, mother" and "Yes, father". A pat on the head and a "good boy" or "good girl" is received, and they are content.

A sad thing it is to be programmed to serve the other.

Yet, when you take a really good look at what children are, you see that they open up vast possibilities for greatness in the world. For children are many things.

First, they are innocent. Birthed without any wayward thoughts, they have no discrimination, no need for confession. They are simply clean and pure, free of guilt and ill intentions. Their only wish is to be held and cared for, for they know that they cannot do it for themselves yet. It is instinct.

Secondly, children are sneaky. They know they have that charm and wit only possessed by one in the single digit age to get out of silly mishaps. They apologize, put on a pout, and sometimes cry because they feel _bad_. It's only when they are removed from the wandering eyes of their caretakers that they look at each other and burst into fits of giggles. And their caretaker actually thinks they were being _sincere_. Touché.

Third, children are curious. They are warned and prodded and punished and told not to do things because it is bad. But if you tell them "no" once, it resounds as a heady "yes, yes, _yes_" in their minds. Silly parents and guardians never seem to understand something so simple. They wish to explore and to know. Sometimes, they may get hurt due to their curiosity, but children are fearless and willing to go that extra step to _see_.

Fourth, children are intelligent. It is the common belief that children know nothing and so the elders must teach them the ways of the world. They must direct them in how to behave and what is proper to do and not to do and what things are important to know so that they can grow into competent human beings in the hope that they serve society well.

Yet, this is only partially true. The elders must teach them how to act in the society that has been created by humans, defined by its concepts and boundaries. Humans were born naked into the world, and yet it is looked down upon in society to be so in the company of others. Crosswalks are built and people stay within the lines, as if to step outside of them would cause unnecessary harm.

They call it society and they call it structure, but all it is, really, is a hindrance to what is natural and what is instinct for humans.

Children know better.

That is why they prance around in their birthday suits, giggling when parents and adults look upon them in horror. It is natural, so why shouldn't they do it? Inherent in the human system is the want to explore and to know more. So, children go about their daily lives free from the confines of work and school (or as much of it as they can get out of) to wander and discover for themselves what is really important in human life.

As far as I am concerned, we get less and less intelligent as well age, with our prime wealth of knowledge coveted in adolescence. This is why we go to school. To relearn what we were unaware that we already knew. A child is like a miniature Pandora's box, waiting for the correct key to unlock it and the inner knowledge to expand and flow outward. Some people can access what they had ingrained within the confines of their psyche from birth easily, where others have to strive and toil for their treasure.

Some are unable to reach it at all.

Lastly, children are _full_. Full of energy, life, intelligence, curiosity, fearlessness, nondiscrimination, charm, it, purity, and innocence… the list goes on and on. Infancy transgresses into adolescence where fullness reaches its peak, then dwindles down and away as age passes by until the brink of death, where we are left a shell, a ghost of what was previously there. Then, darkness consumes us, the world disappears and within the deep dark that surrounds the dead, a glass is filled, drop by drop, until the ghost is ready to return to the world of the living, revamped and reborn completely full again.

And so our story starts with those children who are less confined to the paths laid out by their predecessors, following their instincts and their own interpretations of the world. We will focus on their individual situations as well as how they cope with growing up at Wammy house and the complicated and distressing occurrences that afflict their lives and develop them into beings that become inherently _human_.

These were the children free enough to call themselves the first.

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**A/N:** Not too shabby. Doesn't make much sense sometimes, but do I **ever** make sense? Review please! Honesty is good for the soul. ;D


	2. Contact

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. I just play.

**Spolier:** L's real name.

**A/N:** If you give it a try, thank you. Really. :) Please review as well.

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**The Evolution of Dolls: Contact**

Quillish Wammy was having a bad day.

Now, he was a respectable man, aged already with a pair of beautifully crafted golden spectacles and a fluffy mustache. He came from a respectable, old English family and lived in one of their estates in the shadows of Winchester. It was large and there were few that could arrive at the manor without a long drive, so Wammy, although he'd fervently deny it, was very lonely.

The strangest and most life changing events can happen when we are bored or lonely, and this proved to be the same. So, he began taking in orphans.

He took them in, gave them a place to stay and clothes to wear. Food to eat. The usual. They were nothing special. He taught them to be proper, etiquette and good academic learning, but they were nothing special, so we will treat them as such. Nonetheless, he believed them good children.

Yet, he had gained children as a responsibility, as a way to cope with himself, but it couldn't fill the hole. It only preoccupied it.

Wammy was still lonely.

Then misfortune struck as he received word that his brother had been arrested for murder in Birmingham while attempting to flee out of the country to Wales, although that would prove fruitless. Wammy had not had much contact with family for many years as they had either died, or simply too lazy to contact him, as he himself felt no real connection to any of them, excluding the brother he was now trying to fathom would commit murder. He loved his brother and knew he was a good man, but was constantly traveling, so when he received the call from his brother in jail, it came as quite a surprise.

This was why Quillish Wammy was having a bad day.

His brother had been in jail for about two weeks, and had only asked to use the phone then. Wammy loved his brother, but sometimes he did not understand that man's thought process.

"Drummond?" He questioned quietly. The name was had a Scottish source, although the Wammys knew they were purely of English blood. This might be the reason that Drummond had turned out so different.

"Quillish." was the wary reply.

Wammy sighed heavily. "What have you done? Was it really you?"

He could hear rustling over the phone, assuming it was Drummond shaking his head vigorously. He tended to forget that the person on the other side of the phone could not see him. "No, not at all. I was framed, but I don't have time to explain the entire matter as they only give you five minutes a call, and one call a week and sometimes they are too lazy to even watch you near the phones, which I really should be getting ten minutes seeing as I have waited an extra week to contact you… Maybe I should just ask this gentleman here, Sir… Might I speak to you for a moment?—"

"Drummond, no, D, D! Just talk to me for a minute."

"Oh… Oh, yes, I suppose you're right. So, what is it you would like to know?"

Another heavy sigh. "So, what are they trying for?"

"Well, truth be told, I've already been given the death penalty."

Wammy felt his mouth go dry and his heart skipped a beat. "What?"

"Well, the family wished it, and they had gone through the trial and the works and all the bells and whistles that the man who framed me seemed to fall into place, albeit completely incorrect. There are some things missing, but it was enough for a conviction. You'll probably hear the finalized date on the news…"

Devastation. Complete devastation was consuming Quillish Wammy. How? Why? Who would do that to his brother? Sure, Drummond was a tad quirky, but he was not of poor mental health and would not kill someone. There was someone else who committed the crime, as D had said. Of this, Wammy was certain.

"So, there is no bail? No way I can compensate with the victim's family? God knows we have more than enough money to pay if that's what they truly wish—"

"No, Quillish. I will not stand for it. Besides, I am not afraid. I am completely prepared. So, please brother, do not fear for me."

Wammy's mouth hung slack, suddenly silenced by the sentence. It had been the most open, most lucid statement he had ever hear from Drummond, who tended to ramble and rave. But this… this was sincere and rendered him in a state of both sadness and a small sense of pride. It was sad, but this is what he wanted. This is how he would go.

So, taking a deep breath, Wammy breathed back watery eyes, saying, "Let us hope you have a good trip then."

He could practically see the goofy, lopsided smile through the phone as Drummond responded, "But of course! I know my fate. I only wished to call to let you know it wasn't me. Anyone else can think what they like, but to have you think me a murderer would not sit right in my stomach. Now, I am afraid I must go, I am over my minutes…"  
"Yes, I understand."

"Very good! Now, say hello to mother for me!"

And with that, he was gone; Wammy's ears became very familiar with hum of a dial tone. He sat in his plush, red armchair, staring out the window at the grounds, simply watching the snow fall and pile softly one snowflake on top of the other, trees bare and shivering. It seemed to pretty a day for that sort of call to actually have taken place.

But it did.

He groaned softly to himself as he replaces the brass laid phone back in its holster. Wammy rarely uses the house phone anymore, but that seemed to be the only number that Drummond had remembered.

As soft trickles of tears burned hot trails down his weathered face (which looked more weathered at the moment), he realized that he couldn't relay the message to their mother.

Mother was dead.

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11:03 AM Tuesday morning on August 31st.

Three minutes after Drummond Wammy had been administered the death penalty through lethal injection at the Birmingham Country Prison.

Quillish took slow, careful steps until he settled himself upon a bench right outside the new park they had been building in his district. He did not even have the stamina to turn and see what they were naming the place. His last living relative was now gone. It was a heavy feeling that permeated every essence of his body. The loneliness pervaded.

He rested his thin briefcase along the side of the bench next to him, the brand new red paint a sharp contrast to the black leather casing and golden thread embroidered across the top, spelling out "Wammy". Next to the briefcase, the morning paper was placed after he reread the headline again, confirming that the death of his brother was not some twisted figment of his imagination.

At the sound of children laughing, he peered across the road to a group of what appeared to be orphans (there were many new orphanages beginning to pop up all over England as a social reformation) with a few adult attempting to keep the children in line as they walked past Quillish into the park, name yet unknown. His careful eyes took in the wondrous smiles that graced most of their features, as if they were not allowed to play outside much. What with the weather being so cold and the lack of health care funding, he was surprised they were allowed outside at all. It was a sad thought that struck him as they passed by, that the children were alone in the world, that innocent people were being brought to unjust deaths and innocent children were left to cope of their own, unguided and unjustly small.

With that, he pulled the soft tweed flat cap from off his head covered in white, fluffy hair that matched his white, fluffy mustache as he squeezed the bridge of his nose to dull the ache that was working its way into his mind.

As he closed his eyes, he was surround for a few moments by darkness, stillness, and quiet, interrupted every so often with the peaceful chuckling of small children fading away behind him. Everything was dark. Everything was still. Everything was quiet. Then…

"Was he innocent?"

Quillish lifted open an eyelid to peer at a small, disheveled boy who was staring at him with startling large eyes and a shaggy mane that hung down his head, looking well alive on its very own. Quillish assumed that he must be part of the orphanage that had recently passed him by.

Yet, it was the question that caught him off guard.

"Excuse me, what did you say, lad?"

The small boy, probably no older that four, lifted a thumb to his lips, gnawing gently at the tender skin at the tip of his finger while he stared, unblinking right back at Wammy. "I wanted to know if he was innocent."

Quillish felt himself bristle slightly as he pondered whom the boy could be talking about, but as he clanked at the paper next to himself, a grimace marring his old features, he saw the large headline was easy to read. So, nodding, he replied, "Yes, yes" very softly. Then, he took to staring at the child, taking in his appearance at full face value.

The body was thin, very thin, and scraggly. He looked like he hadn't had a decent shower in months. The clothing he wore hung from his frame as if he were a coat rack and what was once a white shirt appeared a deep cream color, smudges gracing it here and there. The same was with his face, hands, and feet, which were bare, hitting Quillish as strange in such cool temperatures.

All in all, the boy had not blinked while he watched Wammy watch him.

"How did you know?" Quillish felt the question leave his mouth before the thought even registered it in his brain to ask. It was a good question, after all.

The gnawing stopped and the hands were shoved slowly and most calculated into deep pockets of light blue denim jeans two sizes too large. He tilted his head to one side, then the other, mimicking an owl and Quillish had to restrain himself from asking if his neck did not hurt being stretched so far.

"Drummond Wammy. I saw the news report. I always watch the news. He was an English man, height five feet, nine inches, weight one hundred and fifty-five pounds, age sixty-three. Your briefcase has the name 'Wammy' across the top, easy to spot. It is not a common name, so I hypothesized that you, appearing around the same age and height with the same last name, were related in some way. Seeing as how you look distressed, I would assume he was a close relative, presumably a brother, maybe a cousin, but no relation further." The gnawing was resumed to the now reddened stub of a finger.

Quillish looked at the child incredulously. Surely he was only four, maybe five years of age? Speaking so professionally and robotic as such was simply _unnatural_. Yet, what really made him shiver was the fact that the child's assumptions had been correct.

"And how do you know he was innocent?" Quillish asked.

The gnawing paused and the head tilt resumed.

"There is a very small percentage that a one hundred and fifty-five pound elderly man could assault a two hundred and five pound man to death within the fifteen minute time frame that was presumed. A more likely culprit would be one of the men that had recently been released from the prison in Warwick to the east, as they have been having overcrowding issues and decided to release some of their inmates early."

Quillish blinked and leaned forward slightly. "Do you read the news much?"

The boy blinked twice, very slowly, before nodding. "The other children do not let me read the books provided for us, nor do they fancy the shows I choose. So, I read the fronts of the newspapers on the stands when it is my turn to get the milk in the morning."

Quillish bent his head low. "And what is your impression? Of Drummond Wammy, that is."

The boy blinked a little faster. "Obviously, he was innocent. The police have been doing worse and worse as of late." He then pursed his lips together in a disgruntled face, that turned out more adorable than angry, causing Quillish to smile slightly at the young boy.

"If you had a choice, which books would you choose to read?"

The boy returned his gaze to Wammy, thoughtfully removing his finger from his mouth. "_Candide_, by Voltaire. I got halfway through it until it was taken away. I do wish to finish it. It was…" He paused to search for the right word, focusing on some distant point in the sky. "…honest."

At that, Wammy's lip twitched and he replaced the cap on his head, adjusting it slightly as he stood, holding out a hand to the small boy.

"Well, I just so happen to have a copy of that somewhere at my humble orphanage of a home." He felt his insides fizzle slightly at the way the young boy's face brightened. "Son, would you like to come with me?" He hoped sincerely that he did not sound like an old pedophile, but was instead rewarded with a shy little smile and a quiet reply of, "I would like that very much, Sir."

The boy took the offered hand and Quillish lead them into the park (names 'St. James', he noted absently) and towards the adult who he could speak to get adoption information from. For this boy was special, this boy was smart.

"What is your name?" The boy asked, wide eyes appearing whiter with dark sleepless smudges lining them.

"Quillish Wammy. And yours?" He turned his head to face the small boy, who stood no higher than his waist, a small smile stretching languidly across his pale features, as if he had something to hide.

"They call me L Lawliet."

That was the first meeting between L and Wammy. On the day that Quillish Wammy had something very intimate and precious so unjustly taken from him, he was given a gift greater than he could ever have dreamed of. He was given the gift of a child.

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**A/N:** If you tested it out, thank you again. I really appriciate it. If this is too dry or serious for you, try my Lamentations (comedy/parody) or Snake Fighting (romance/suspense). Cheers! Also, reviews are nice.


	3. Deductions

**Disclaimer:** Play, play, play. Puppets on a string.

**Author's Note:** Finally, an update! It's become harder and harder to step away from my Snake Fighting baby to come back to this, especially since the familial genre is much more difficult for me to express. So, I hope you'll give it a try and will review honestly to let me know how I can grow and improve. And late thank you to sakuragawa for the lone review! Hahaha Anyway, on to the story!

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_"Space ships can't tame the jungle,_

_and I feel like I'm giving in._

_We've been driving through a desert_

_looking for a life to call our own."_

-Beck "Earthquake Weather"

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**Chapter 2 – Deductions**

Wammy let out a tired sigh. "L…"

"No."

"But L."

"I will not acquiesce, Wammy." The five-year old mumbled from behind his book.

"But you need to gain a proper education."

Small, white hands closed the large book, edges fraying and the cover covered in a thin layer of dust. It was placed reverently on the space next to a small L Lawliet, crouching on the plush sofa as large black eyes focused on the man sitting across from him, who was currently attempting to get the young L to visit his tutor for his daily lessons.

" He's biased…"

"But—"

"…and uses too much circular reasoning…"

"But—"

"…and doesn't let me eat any sweets during lessons…"

"_But_—"

"…and I don't see the reason why I might need to learn more than one language."

Wammy dropped his head into his palms, groaning slightly in annoyance as the young boy looked on, seemingly innocent, and Wammy pinched at the bridge of his nose, fresh migraine working its way into his tired brain.

"I need some fresh air…" He mumbled offhandedly and flicked his eyes up momentarily as L moved off of the couch to stand in front of him and stare with those large, devoid eyes. The fact that he rarely blinked didn't seem to both Wammy, but the elderly man knew it unnerved some of the staff.

Then, L took his hand and, maneuvering so their fingers were intertwined slowly, held up the clasped hands to inspect before he nodded to himself and began pulling the older man up and towards the door, shoving small feet into some sneakers that were far too dirty to have only been bought the month before.

Wammy drew his brows together and, almost on instinct, L smiled up at him, saying, "Ice cream."

'_Ah._' Wammy sighed. Of course. Ice cream. He could get fresh air and the boy could rot his teeth further. '_Splendid._'

It wasn't like the boy was going to listen to him anyway. Well, he was well behaved for the most part, and Wammy did enjoy spending his time listening to the young L Lawliet chatter on and on about the mystery novels he had finished or his take on the Platonic theory of Forms. Sometimes Wammy just enjoyed the way silence surrounded the pair of them when left alone, it didn't matter where. The overwhelming feeling of comfort and home was strong enough.

L was an orphan, and as such, was not used to following instructions dealt out by those usually regarded in higher power. He ignored the disdainful looks thrown his way when he ignored the rules of dinner time and procured what it was he wanted to eat, whenever he wanted to eat. He also was not hindered by the way the maids implored him to bath or change his clothes and would only do so upon seeing Wammy himself give a disappointed nod of the head. He refused to visit regular lessons like the other children and voiced that it was only crotchety old men tried to shove their idealisms and dogma down the throats of orphans and that he had quite enough of it at his previous orphanage. L had affirmed he would be better off and more rounded by learning on his own; he would read the many books strewed throughout Wammy's vast library and be able to articulate his own conclusions about the world as such.

Wammy couldn't help but heave a tired sigh as he watched L skip happily a few feet ahead of him as they made their way through snow-laden streets and past the little shops bearing tiny, little robots and fancifully colored stuffed unicorns, packaged and ready to bribe young children on Christmas day.

L had stopped ahead to bow to a gentleman in the road and as Wammy squinted, he saw the man now patting the top of his ward's head was a man by the name of Nicholas Cavers. He was the man when delivered the goods from the bakery to Wammy house. Shaking his head slightly, Wammy realized that L's priorities were on the long end of the stick.

Yet, his fluffy, white mustache bristled happily as they arrived at the Ice Cream Shoppe, the sounds of children's voices echoing through the doors and out onto the street. Delightful waves of vanilla and caramel and mint wafted as a welcomed accompaniment of voice which sounded like beautiful singing to Quillish's ears.

Yet, he stopped just outside the door as L, instead of rushing in to purchase his ice cream, hung back tentatively and pressed into Wammy with yearning eyes.

"Well, go on then…" Wammy encouraged and L looked coyly to the ground before he seemed to regain his bout of courage and push through the door to enter the shop. Wammy made sure to follow close behind, for he could see the hesitation lining L's face at the prospect of going somewhere alone and having to _interact_ with others on his own. They boy was a lot of things, but extroverted was not one of them.

Wammy placed a calming hand onto L's shoulder, squeezing it through the soft fleece of the coat he'd recently bought the boy and was rewarded with one of those rare, modest smiles that was inherently L.

Warmth seeped through his body as he watched the boy gather enough courage to squeeze through the line of kids to look into the ice cream case while Wammy waited in line.

He returned quickly to take a strong grip on Wammy's hand and press himself close to his keeper, face surveying the people within the shop warily from under messy black fringe.

Leaning down slightly, Wammy inquired L as the worker motioned for them to come forward and make their order. "What flavor have you chosen, L?" He saw L's mouth move, but the worker still leaned forward over the counter, cupping his ear in an attempt to hear the small boy.

In the end, he turned to Wammy and said, "What did he say?"

Quillish bent down and scooped the shy boy up into his arms, cradling the small body in his arms as L wrapped his own spindly appendages around the older man's neck and whispered, "Butterscotch." into his waiting ear. Smiling, Wammy relayed this to the worker and paid careful attention to make sure they drizzle the cup of ice cream with chocolate syrup and whipped cream.

"…A little more, I think." Wammy mumbled, motioning at the ice cream with a wrinkled finger.

The worker cocked an inquisitive eyebrow his way and said, "You know Mister, your kid's teeth are going to fall out if you –"

"—If we don't maintain proper hygiene. We know." The small boy in Quillish' arms cut him off and took the cup of ice cream into his hands as his keeper shrugged and handed his money over.

Wammy turned and made his way back through the crowd to the streets and began a slow trek back towards Wammy house. He liked being outdoors, but Quillish did not like leaving the children alone for a long time, no matter what the reason.

Finding himself slightly winded after the third block, the elderly man stopped at a bench situated outside of Moore Park, and sat both he and L onto it. There was a sudden presence of déjà vu as he leaned back, listening to chirping birds and the ring of children's voices and a song playing in French somewhere far off.

"Thank you, Wammy." L said quietly from his spot, mouth full of chocolate and caramel and all sort of sugary delights which would normally endeavor to destroy such a small child's mouth. Yet, the few times Wammy had brought L to the dentist, he was surprised to be told that L's teeth were absolutely perfect. Patting the small boy's head, he chocked it up to _really_ good luck.

A few moments of soft chewing passed and Quillish turned to look at L, seeing the boy had stopped mid-bite and was listening intently.

"What is it?"

L blinked slowly. "What language is this?"

Wammy made an inquisitive noise. "Hm… The song? It's French." He shot the intrigued boy a sideways glance. "Would you like me to tell you what they are saying?"

Quickly, L shook his head back and forth and jumped off the bench.

"I do not need to know what is being said to know the language."

"Oh?"

L nodded and proceeded to repeat the song verbatim which caused the older man to chuckle.

"And how do you know they are not speaking about something naughty?" He questioned.

L shifted in his place on the ground and nibbled an thumbnail absently, eyes drifting skyward. "They would not be playing an inappropriate song at a public park where it would be free to be heard by children's ears."

He turned to the other and motioned towards home with his head, mouth once again housing precious ice cream. Wammy willed himself up and trotted after the boy, who stopped every once in a while to speculate on the wares being sold in each shop.

He paused and stared at a large window and as Wammy stopped behind his ward, he noticed there were three televisions, each housing a different news station. One was an American station, talking about a protest against abortion in Pennsylvania. One woman was screaming "Baby killer!" over and over again. The second television was in Russian and showed the current Prime Minister undergoing peace negotiations between his country and the warring tribes on the borderlands between Russian and Mongolia. The third contained an Italian channel, currently spinning through a set of commercials. A rather well-dubbed Chanel No. 5 flitted across the screen.

Tilting his head to the side, Wammy surveyed the blank look on L's face. He knew better than to take this as how L was feeling, though. He rarely allowed his emotions to wander and Qullish had learned to read the emotion boiling in the boy's eyes.

A scratching sound reached their ears and L looked down to see he had depleted his source of ice cream. Looking up to Wammy with the beginning of a pout and a small amount of surprise, he stated, "I did not have enough ice cream to supply our journey home."

Quillish nodded and took the now empty bowl from small hands and, tossing it into the nearest trash can, intertwined his fingers with L much the same way L had done earlier before leading the small boy down the street in his shirt and jacket and pants too large for his thin frame.

It was quiet when they arrived home and L stood in the doorway of Wammy's study after following his keeper there, watching his careful movements in hanging the jackets in the closet and storing the boots to be cleaned. He shuffled back and forth anxiously in the doorway, the pad of his thumb stuck between two nibbling rows of teeth as his eyes watch Wammy.

Sensing this, Wammy turned and raised his eyebrows at L. When he received no reply, his mustache bristling, he asked, "Yes, L?"

L took another nibble before removing the damaged appendage from his mouth and studying an uncertain point on the floor with a sharp intensity. He tilted his head to one side, then to the other.

"I have decided that I would like a tutor."

Wammy's eyes widened slightly and he smiled. "For what subjects, L?"

"I would like a tutor to teach me languages…" He paused and then began listing them off on his small fingers. "Chinese. Italian. Russian. Slovakian…"

Wammy covered his mouth with a hand to stifle a chuckle and, interrupting his younger counterpart, said, "Of course, L, but how about we start with French…"

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**A/N:** Visions of little L please me so much. Reviews are lovely. Thank you!


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